


White Lace & Pink-Gold Silk

by ShortInsomniac98



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Fantasizing, Fingerfucking, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Paris (City), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Scene: Paris 1793 (Good Omens), Sexual Fantasy, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-17 01:08:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21508249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShortInsomniac98/pseuds/ShortInsomniac98
Summary: Crowley finds himself alone once again, but he can't seem to get a certain image out of his head.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 284





	White Lace & Pink-Gold Silk

**Author's Note:**

> Basically just another "Crowley went home and had a good wanking after 1793" fic. This is my take on it.

After whisking Aziraphale off to safety and lunch, Crowley took him back to his little rented room. He’d hoped to have been invited in, but obviously didn’t expect it. That didn’t stop him from being disappointed when Aziraphale wished him goodbye and shut the door in his face.

He wandered back alone to his own rooms and locked himself in for the night with the plan to sleep for either the next ten hours or the next ten days. He dropped his jacket on the floor, removed his glasses and set them on the little table by the door, and snapped his fingers to free his hair from the intricate style he’d willed it into that morning.

It was much easier that way than to remove each individual pin, pulling and snagging little strands of his hair in the process. Also, he had to admit, he loved the instant feeling of relief it gave him, letting his hair down all at once. Like some kind of instant orgasm. He thought briefly that somebody ought to find a way so that everyone could experience that one day.

He snapped his fingers again upon entering the sitting room, summoning the chaise lounge from his study. He laid back and closed his eyes, ready to let sleep take him, but, as usual, he found himself quickly distracted by some meandering line of thought or other. Without even meaning to, he let his thoughts sink back into the events of that afternoon, to the way Aziraphale had looked in that ridiculous bloody outfit, to the way his eyes took him in, sizing him up but somehow still so vulnerable.

_And those chains._

There was a gentle warmth pooling between his legs, and he sighed, melting further into the sofa. Crowley had never been one for bondage. Being tied up was never his style. But seeing the angel chained up like that…waiting for him…practically at his mercy…oh, it was all too much.

He let out a sigh and opened his eyes slowly, suddenly very aware of how hot he felt and how quick his breathing had come, of the rise and fall of his own chest, and of the fact that he was rubbing his thighs together as he lay there on the sofa thinking about Aziraphale.

Kicking his shoes off, he pushed himself up a bit, and he untied the front of his trousers. It was shameful the way he felt, but he hardly cared. All he cared about now was hitting that release, satisfying this urge, if only to get rid of it.

He slipped a hand under the front of his trousers and under his underpants, and he opened his legs to let his hand between them. Instantly, as he stroked a fingertip over his slit, he felt relieved in a way. His body relaxed, muscles he hadn’t even realized were tensed loosened, and he let out a soft sigh. He pressed his finger deeper between his folds, coating it in his wetness before pushing it gently into his cunt.

A moan fell from his lips and his eyes squeezed shut. He silently thanked himself for thinking to switch to this one when he came to France before allowing his thoughts to return once again to Aziraphale.

He slipped in a second finger.

“Fuck,” he gasped, having found that one particular little bundle of nerves and curled his fingers against it.

He imagined Aziraphale’s fingers inside him, Aziraphale’s lips against his ear as he whispered how truly terrible he was for _wanting_ this, for _liking_ it.

“ _Hng_ ,” he whimpered, his hips bucking forward.

He pressed the heel of his hand to his clit and nearly cried out as a new wave of pleasure hit him, bright white and fiercely hot. He gasped for air and with his other hand held tight to the edge of the sofa. His hips rocked against his hand, riding out the wave.

_Riding, that’s it._

He snapped his fingers and his trousers and underpants were gone. Quickly, he sat up and repositioned himself on his knees, legs apart. He braced himself with a hand on the backrest of the chaise and continued fucking himself with the other, letting his hips do half the work now.

He thought of Aziraphale below him, his hands still bound, mouth agape, eyes half-shut with pleasure, his cock standing at attention for him, and riding Aziraphale as hard as he could bring himself to.

“ _Ah_ ,” he cried. “Yes. _Yessss_.”

He rubbed frantically at his clit, his hole empty and dripping wet, tightening around nothing as he came again. He screamed, and realized only once the sound had left his body that his neighbors might hear, then decided he didn’t care.

“Fuck,” he sighed, and collapsed onto his side in a crumpled heap on the lounge. “ _Oh, fuck_.”

It still wasn’t enough. His body still ached and pulsed and the image of Aziraphale’s eyes on him remained, of his soft, pink lips, his stupid, hideous, gaudy outfit begging to be taken off.

Crowley rolled onto his back, imagined snapping his fingers, ridding Aziraphale of his bonds, and Aziraphale coming closer, hovering over his spent body, leaning over him. Kissing him.

He ripped his tie off and tossed it to the floor, and frantically unbuttoned his shirt, imagining it was the angel. He ran his hands over his torso, letting one come to rest on his left nipple, which he began to rub and pinch with some determination, and he whimpered softly.

“Aziraphale,” he breathed. “ _Hm…_ ”

His eyes squeezed tighter shut and he cried out as his clit began to throb again. His other hand found its way once more between his legs, and he began to rub in smooth, singular, shallow strokes, up his slit from his opening to his clit, thinking of Aziraphale’s mouth on him, his tongue teasing his folds.

“ _Oh, Christ_ ,” he whimpered, his voice high and strained. “ _Ah—angel. There_.”

He circled his clit with two fingers, and he fought the urge to rock his hips. He knew it didn’t really matter if he did, but, well, it was all part of the fantasy. If Aziraphale had really been between his legs, he knew he would have done the same, or tried to.

He cried out again, his voice hoarse, and his back arched off the dark, cushioned upholstery, his head digging back into it. His free hand was buried in his hair, holding it out of his face and, he realized, pulling it gently. He let go of it and let his body relax. One of his feet slipped down to sit flat on the floor, while the other leg remained bent, leant against the backrest of the chaise lounge. His hands lay on his stomach, feeling it rise and fall as his breathing returned to normal.

“Oh, good lord,” he panted, and began to laugh quietly to himself.

He rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands. His walls were still contracting, throbbing, aching, but that was merely an aftereffect. He didn’t think he could keep going if he wanted to. With a barely-perceptible twitch of his wrist, he willed himself clean and clothed, now in a long, black cotton nightshirt. Sleep, now, he hoped, would come easy, and no doubt would be polluted with dreams of white lace and pink-gold silk.


End file.
